


The Unlucky Princess and Her Tragic Boy

by That_Ghost_Kristoff



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Falling In Love, House Stark, House Tyrell, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Renaissance Faires, Robb and Jon are Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Ghost_Kristoff/pseuds/That_Ghost_Kristoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flirting with the kid playing Icarus in Shakespearean English wasn't how Margaery thought she'd spend her first year working. She hadn't expected to fall in love him, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unlucky Princess and Her Tragic Boy

**Author's Note:**

> For Robbaery Week. There is literally no excuse for this. The idea just sort of struck me. 
> 
> Also, the Renaissance Faire is made up. New Jersey doesn't have one that runs for two months.

They meet at age sixteen, and it’s the first year working for both of them. “We’ve been working for like an hour,” he says with a laugh when she corners him. “Do I seriously have a delivery already?”

Though his language is a clear break of character, his accent still sounds all English, and Margaery actually spares a thought to whether or not it’s authentic. “Well,” she answers as she removes her turned around white rose from the top of her flower stack to give to him, “someone anonymous thinks you’re hot.”

“Anonymous?” he repeats. “Wait, my friend told me about this. You aren’t allowed to tell me or you’ll lose your job. Did it come with a message?”

Oh, a considerate one then. She’s already been warned there aren’t many of those. “Only this,” she says, and hands it to him. “‘Even when you lose your feathers, I hope to see you’ve kept my rose.’ Who are you supposed to be anyway? Eros?”

His costume is weird, with his wings attached to arms, and the rest of him is colorless—all white and grey. Even though this is the Mythology Renaissance Faire of New Jersey, with this year’s theme being Greek, most people are still draped in color.  “Icarus,” he says. “Apparently I’m the first person to ever suggest Icarus, would you believe that? Renly looked at me like I was nuts. What about you? That’s not a typical merc costume.”

Normally Margaery wouldn’t find a guy in feathered wings and a glorified pillow case attractive, but this kid is so genuinely enthusiastic she can’t help it. “My grandma owns the flower selling business for this Faire, so I can get away with wearing FoxGlove silk rather than a corset or bodice as a first year,” she says, and takes the rose back out of his hands as he’s obviously at a loss. Then she snaps it at the first knob, and tubes it again. “I can put it in your laurel crown.”

“Oh. Sure.” He lets her, though he needs to drops his knees a bit while she goes on her toes, and her own garland she made herself almost slips off her head. When she finally pronounces him finished, he laughs again. “Wow, teamwork. Well, I better get going. Nice meeting you, Ariadne.”

“Ariadne? Wait, what—”

“Helen of Troy and Aphrodite were already taken,” he says, and is gone before she can say anything. Before she can even think about it, though, a patron comes up asking for a sunflower, and she throws herself into her first day of sales.

Hours later, the implication of the name hits her, and she decides not to tell Jeyne.

 

 

“Safe travels, Milord, Milady,” Margaery says with a curtsey, ushering a couple of satisfied, four dollars poorer patrons along their way. She goes to turn around, head back in the director of the rose clinic to pick up her third batch of flowers, when she’s suddenly face to face with a very startled ginger. “Oh. Hello, Milord.”

Slightly less startled looking now, he says, “Milord? Is that not a tad improper coming from the Lady Ariadne, Princess of Crete, granddaughter of Helios, eventual wife of Dionysus?”

As her family owns a business at the Faire, Margaery grew up going here every weekend for years, and she knows background knowledge isn’t a prerequisite to playing a character. Either this kid really likes Greek mythology, or he went above and beyond with this acting gig. “Perhaps I’m on the run from my father, off to meet Thesus for a tustle in the wood.”

“If that is thine intention, Princess Ariadne,” he answers, and he’s grinning again, “then mark mine words: avoid thy father’s Labyrinth until thy string is found.”

“Should I not try regardless of certain risk, Sirrah?” They’re attracting the beginnings of a crowd, whether that was his intention or not, and Grandma will bitch at her later for making up a character without clearance, but this isn’t technically her fault. “Art thou not trapped in mine father’s maze? I could save thee, ere thy tragic fate came to pass.”

He takes her free hand, the one not balancing her wicker basket of flowers on her shoulder, and kisses it all knightly and proper. There’s a gerbera daisy tucked inside his laurel crown where yesterday she’d put the rose. “Some fates, My Princess,” he says when he raises his head, face solemn, “were not woven with happy endings.”

Then he’s gone again, not allowing her the last word, which she _hates_ , leaving her alone with a small crowd of onlookers. “So you’re a princess?” a little girl asks as Margaery sells her parents a red rose.

“Of course she is,” the mom says. “Just look at how beautiful her crown is.”

Her crown is woven from living flowers and ivy from her mom’s elaborate backyard garden, and as she made it last night, it’s certainly nicer than any Faire-bought garlands. And girls say they don’t work without ribbon. While this sort might only last a day, at least it’s prettier. “Thou art most kind, My Lady,” she says, and curtsies. “May Hermes bless thee on thy travels to wherever thou seek.”

From the moment they leave, she has three more patrons waiting for her, all onlookers to her short exchange with the Icarus kid. Hm. Maybe she can work with this.

 

 

It’s Sunday morning, second weekend, and she already has a delivery. And this time, it’s not from Jeyne, but from Theon Greyjoy. “You know the ginger actor kid with the wings?” he asks after he pulls her behind the stands surrounding the sand pit, nearly tripping over his own net. For some unknown reason, he’s a sailor shipwrecked for disrespecting Poseidon this year—and she doesn’t want to know what his idea of “disrespecting” a god is.

“Icarus?”

Theon nods. “Yeah, him. Name’s Robb. He’s having a shit day. I’m not really all that creative, so just bullshit something for me, okay? Favor to a friend, Margie?”

 _Robb._ Well, he does look like a Robb, she supposes, and feels a little too pleased that she found out his name before he found out hers after they’ve interacted every Faire day. “Should I say it’s anon?” she says, and he shrugs. “All right. Free reign then.”

And that’s how three hours later she ends up alone backstage with Icarus, his wings detached and laurel crown on the table beside him, drinking from a water bottle dripping with condensation. Today is annoyingly hot, even for her, and his cheeks are lightly sunburned. “How is it that I can only find you when I’m not trying to?” she asks, removing a bright yellow rose because Theon didn’t specify and that Icarus costume really needs some color.

“Because I’m not attached to a venue and get to wander,” he answers, and accepts the flower. Now he definitely is out of character, and his accent is still solidly English. Apparently it’s genuine. “My secret admirer again?”

Shaking her head, she answers, “It’s from Theon. He said you’re having a bad day.”

She hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but he really does look like such a downtrodden puppy right now she doesn’t have the heart to lie to him. “Awesome,” he says, and pushes his fingers through his curls. “I’ve got this brother—a twin—and we decided to work here together, and we got into a really fucking stupid fight on the way here with Theon as our ride. Surprised he thought a rose was a good idea to make— _oh._ ”

There’s an awkward sort of moment where they both just stare at each other, and this is her second weekend of her first real job, so excuse her if she has to stop herself from blushing. He doesn’t do as well as keeping it under control as he does, but seriously, fuck Theon Greyjoy. And if Theon just got her in specific to deliver his friend a rose, a kid she’s regularly been interacting with, then at least one more person must be in one it. That means at minimum two people are already trying to play matchmaker.

“Sorry,” Icarus, or Robb, or whoever he is, says, almost like he’s trying to cover up the realization. “I didn’t mean to just…spill that on you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Margaery Tyrell,” she says. “I know you’re Robb Something. Theon said it.”

He nods. “Stark.”

The name isn’t familiar to her at all, which she supposes is a good thing. The last thing she needs is for him to actually be from her school. “Well, I need to get back to selling. If you’re hit by the sudden craving to help out some poor first year seller, I’m sure you’ll be able to find me somehow.”

Maybe this isn’t the best way to handle the possibility of people trying to shove them together, but hey, she always attracts more patrons when he’s around. With something nearing a smile, he says, “Anything for Princess Ariadne,” so she does the only appropriate thing and rolls her eyes.

Before she kills Theon, she’ll see how this goes, she decides. It’s the August before her junior year, and she’s allowed to have to have some fun if she wants.

 

 

Jeyne Westerling, the girl who originally gave her the delivery because Robb is honestly one of the hottest people here actually around their age, catches up with her outside the Viking armory (the theme this year might be Greek, but the shops still vary). As the delivery was anonymous the first time around, Margaery forgives Robb quick enough, but this is still a horrible coincidence.

“Delivery for you,” her friend says, notebook out to read a message from. Whether she got over that supposedly five second crush or not is debatable. “‘To the lovely Princess Ariadne, whose string must be made of rose petals instead of yarn, and shines brighter than any sun the Fates have cruelty destined me to fly too close to. May you continue to smile as if you know the world is going to end and simply don’t care.’”

If it were anyone else, she would be embarrassed, but this is Robb, so against her better intentions, she laughs. The rose he selected for her is yellow and red, which happen to mean joy. How appropriate. As she says, “Thank you, My Lady,” to Jeyne, she snaps it, tubes it again, and slips it into her garland. And, though Margaery knows this might be horrible as well, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up, so she adds, “The dark pink one.”

Watching her take money out of her tip pocket of her pouch, Jeyne says, “You’re going to start this game?”

It’s expensive and Robb’s still volunteer, so Margaery doubts it will go past this, but she has at least a hundred in tips today and it’s only three. She can spare four dollars. “Dark pink means gratitude. Light pink is what you’re thinking of,” she says. Once Jeyne has her notebook and pen at the ready, she continues, “‘My good sir, your words are most kind, and I will treasure your favor, though my dearest Thesus will not. Do not despair, for the Fates may have fashioned us for tragedy, but first we can play their game rather than stand passive. If my smile will end the world, then first yours will light it.’”

“Are you sure it’s dark pink you want delivered?” Jeyne says once she’s finished copying it down. “Because that definitely sounded like a love letter.”

With a smile, Margaery answers, “It’s business, darling, not a love affair,” and flips her hair over her shoulder as she walks away.

 

 

For the first time ever, her friendship grows fast enough with someone for her brother Loras, who plays Achilles this year, to comment on. He’s a senior, and she’s a junior, and they’re on the way back from an absolutely miserable day of school. At the Renaissance Faire they may be an untouchable Greek warrior and a princess, but at school, they’re just a couple of normal kids. And it’s not even that today was bad. It’s just that it was tiring, because all her classes this semester are the ones she hates. Loras was a little luckier, in that respect.

Now they’re driving home, and Margaery has to keep pulling up her top to stop it from revealing her bra, because no matter how cute it is, the dress is better. “I _did_ warn you about the weight drop Faire would give you,” her brother says mildly, only sparing a glance at her. “Bet Robb Stark wouldn’t mind the free show.”

She groans, and is too exhausted to hit him. Maybe she’ll drag him on a shopping trip instead, because he’ll like it right up until the point she drags him into Anthropologie. “Oh god,” she says. “Not you too.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, “but it’s _everyone_ in the acting company _._ Renly thought you would’ve gotten together by now, so he owes me a twenty. Seriously, though, the two of you are like a fairy tale couple. You really would look like young royalty.”

“It takes more than aesthetic to make a relationship work.”

“Oh, really? You’re going to play that card on me?”

With a shrug, she says, “Consider it payback for not warning me you were going to give Renly a blowjob in the living room. Robb helps me sell. We haven’t even met up outside of Faire. You know him better than I do. Why bring this up now? Stop sign!”

He slams on his brakes hard enough for her seatbelt to dig into her chest. As much as she hates the bus, Loras’ driving is still scarier. “Margie, his _brother’s_ pointed out how much he likes you, and Jon more oblivious than Willas.” Though she’s talked to the Other Stark, as she calls the boy, she doesn’t know much about him, but being more clueless than their older brother is not a good thing. “He’s a good kid. Also pretty oblivious, but still good. And I was there when you got that rose. You like him too.”

“We’re not having this discussion.”

Unfortunately, Loras is smirking now, which means they are having this discussion. Then again, she got him with Renly, so maybe he thinks of this as helping her. And, to be entirely honest, she wouldn’t be too resistant to the idea if other people weren’t trying to orchestrate it.

“Invite him somewhere,” her brother says. “I dare you.”

Even though she’s sixteen and could easily back down from this, she knows more realistically he’ll tell Renly, but he’ll probably tell him at work, and someone will inevitably overhear. Then they’ll just have a disaster on their hands, and there’s nothing more annoying than a rumor. “Fine,” she says. “It’s not a date.”

Loras is still smirking, but he doesn’t disagree. At least there’s that, she decides, and lets the rest of the car ride pass in silence.

 

 

The exact midpoint between their houses is a Shore Point, and meeting up after school one day ends up more date like than she intended. Still, he buys them M&M fudge to share, and access to the beach is free past four, so it’s not like she’s complaining.

“So this is how the lovely Princess Ariadne looks out of garb,” Robb says once they’re alone, Loras having run off to a mall two towns over with Renly to see a movie. They’re walking on the beach, holding their shoes, and breaking off pieces of chocolate. “It actually feels indecent seeing you in a normal skirt.”

Yeah, this feels like a date. Definitely date-like. Fucking Loras. “And you just look like Icarus modernized,” she says, motioning up and down to his grey shorts and white button-down. “Do you own any color?”

Shrugging, he answers, “I think. My little sister’s absorbed all the color in the house, though. Or one of them anyway. She’s fourteen.”

“‘One of them?’” She’s struck by the sudden realization that despite how often the two of them talk, she knows him more as Icarus than Robb. They know close to nothing about each other.

“I’ve got two,” he tells her. “There are six of us in total—Jon and I are the oldest at sixteen, Sansa’s fourteen, Arya twelve, Bran eleven, and Rickon six. Loras complains about some guy named Garlan all the time, so I know you’ve got at least one other brother.”

Five siblings. Jesus, and she thought three was bad. “I’m the youngest,” she says. “Then Loras is a year older than me, Willas is twenty-five, and this is going to sound awful, but I don’t know Garlan’s age. He’s married with children, though. Thirty something?”

He breaks a piece of fudge off for himself, then holds it out to her. “Don’t feel bad. Rickon forgot our birthday this year, and Arya remembered to say ‘happy birthday’ to Jon, but not to me,” he says, and that’s harsher than just not knowing the date to begin with. “When’s yours? Ours just passed, July thirty-first.”

“October thirtieth,” she answers, and hadn’t expected him to be a full nine months younger than her. “I get All Hallows’ Eve, you get Harry Potter’s birthday. Which of us is less fortunate?”

Again, he shrugs. “Everyone in my family managed to be born in summer, which I think was on purpose—my mom’s a professor at Rutgers’s. Our old babysitter back in England used to call us ‘sweet summer children.’ Your family’s into celebration event planning or something, right?”

Apparently Loras has been talking way too much about their home life. Margaery prefers knowing more about other people than they know about her, and as much as she likes Robb, she’s not enjoying the sudden switch. “Yes,” she says. “Weddings, bar mitzvahs, sweet sixteens, business holiday parties. Our big event is the Baratheon holiday party every year, and my wedding, which my mom has planned from start to finish and I’m not even seventeen.”

To her surprised, he looks about as startled as that day they nearly collided with each other and started this whole mess. “Did you just say Baratheon holiday party?” When she nods, he says, “My dad’s the business equivalent to Robert Baratheon’s second-in-command. He’s the whole reason we moved to America. I’ve been stuck going every year since I was ten.”

“And no one’s ever mentioned it’s High Garden Celebrations that does the decorations and lay out every year?” she says, and he shakes his head. “That bastard.”

With a laugh, Robb says, “That about sums it up. Robert’s drunk within two hours, flirting with everyone but his wife, and Cersei’s sulking in a corner with her brother. Dad wants us—Jon and I—to go into the business, too, after college, but my brother’s better at the whole thing than I am. Besides, Robert’s not really the sort of person I want to work for.”

“My parents want me to do the same thing,” she tells him, both pleased and wary to find they have something in common because _no_ , her brother is definitely not right about anything. “Loras will be wonderful about it. I want to go into politics and psychology. Grandma’s the only one supporting my decision.”

“I want to go into political science, too. And multilingualism, if that’s a major, and not at Rutgers,” he says. “My mom really, really wants me to go to Rutgers, but it’s just—”

“Too big?”

Realistically, they’re both just starting their junior year, they should be worrying more about their SATs than their majors, but Margaery’s known what she wanted to do since she first took American history in the fifth grade. And, all right, maybe her brother has a point because clearly the two of them can actually talk to each other, and she wasn’t lying when said Robb’s smile could light up the world. It’s very nice and symmetrical, unlike hers. “Exactly,” he says with that stupid smile of his. “Why politics?”

They spend a while walking a beach, then the town, talking likes and dislikes and families and friends. She finds out they share the same favorite book ( _Harry Potter_ ), that he doesn’t have a favorite color or favorite food (hers are blue and sushi, though the two should not be connected), and he wants to go into politics on an international scale while she wants domestic. He prefers winter while she prefers the summer, but they agree Halloween is the greatest holiday there is. Mythology is cool. Both have them have fully mapped out plans for world domination. By the time they split up at six, she’s relatively sure she knows more about him than she does any of her friends in town.

She’s also relatively sure she’s fucked, and that never means anything good.

 

 

Though a first year, by September she’d skyrocketed into position of best seller, something she thinks probably wouldn’t have happened if the old best seller hadn’t left. But she’s a Tyrell, and perfection is expected of her, so she had to try.

And, if she’s perfectly honest with herself, the Icarus to her Ariadne had a lot to with it.

Right now it’s Saturday, late in the day, and there are only six days left of Faire, or three weeks including this one. He catches her right at the end of Cassandra’s Path, as it’s called this year. “Oh, I thought not to see thee here, Princess,” he says, and kisses the back of her hand.

She smiles her lopsided smile, the one he says makes it look like she knows the world is going to end. “I thought not to be here, Sirrah,” she says, adjusting the basket on her shoulder now that she has a hand free. “How’s fairs thee on this fine evening?”

“Better, now that Princess Ariadne has graced me with her presence,” he answers. “Would the Princess be so kind to exchange with me her purple rose for coin?”

Earlier she’d been complaining to him that the lavender rose wasn’t selling, which was strange as it was an unusual color and definitely the prettiest in the basket, but as she’s in character she can’t tell him he doesn’t need to be so nice. He already has the money in his hand, too, all discreet and neatly folded in half. “Of course, my good sir,” she says, and swaps the rose for the four singles. “And what lady doth thou wish to gift this favor?”

Unsurprisingly, he just hands the flower right back to her. “No normal highborn lady today, but a princess,” he says, “if she would have it to join to great collection.” Her collection, of course, referring to all the flowers patrons and other workers bought her she has decorating her body.

“And she will accept, though the man who gives it is of low birth.” She goes through her common action of snapping it, and then ties it to the ends of her top as she has too many in her hair. “I have a gift for thee as well, Sirrah,” she adds, and is already removing an orange rose that’s also refusing to sell from the middle layer of her basket, “and I command as Princess of Crete that thee accepts.”

Outside of Faire, she’s seen him look exasperated, but this is the first time she’s seen it during work hours. “Who am I to refuse a royal command?” he says, and allows her to slip the orange rose next to a yellow one in his hair. Mixed with the red of his curls, it makes for nice, complimentary fire colors. “I will wear thy favor with pride, Princess. May Hermes bless thee on thy journey, wherever that may be.”

“And may Athena bless thy wings, and thy flight to safety.”

Before he leaves, Robb kisses her hand again, and she hears a patron coo about the Faire’s love stories. Hopefully none of the other rose girls ask who gave her the lavender rose, because she hears enough talk of her and Robb without him giving her a flower that means “love at first sight.”

 

 

This year’s cast party’s theme is masquerade, and the only reason she remembers is because Grandma won’t shut up reminding her. As often as she hung around Faire during her childhood, she’s never actually been to one of these. It’s lower energy than she thought, but she supposes that makes sense, as it’s about ninety degrees and everyone is exhausted.

She ends up not being able to find a mask, and last minute throws on a sheer lace veil instead, which goes well enough with the Victorian dress she got for Halloween last year. And since she looks even fancier than she does normally, and Robb is inevitably going to be here, she’s more than a little bit pleased to hear a voice from behind her say, “You look like a real princess, Margie.”

When she turns, he’s standing there with his arms crossed in slacks, another fucking grey button-down, and masquerade mask that looks a bit like a wolf covering the top of his face. “I bet you use that on all the girls.”

Over his shoulder, she sees Jon holding a can of coke talking to Loras and a girl named Ygritte Rayder she recognizes from the archery shop. He’s got the same type of mask on his face as Robb, except it’s white instead of grey, and they take the matching twins thing to a whole different level. Thank god the only thing they have in common is their curls. “No,” Robb says, “only you. Hey, want to go for a walk?”

Everyone’s milling around the food pavilion awaiting an extremely late dinner, but when he holds his arm out to her, she laces her elbow with his and heads in the direction of the Olympian Trail. It’s dark, difficult to see, and he pushes the mask up so it rests on his head. “So I’m a princess and you’re like the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood. I should’ve worn that red cloak I bought from Moresca for next year.”

“What’re you going to be?”

Next year is Celtic and Irish Mythology. “I’m not sure yet,” she says. “I have a full eleven months to figure it out, though. What about you?”

“Hopefully not a leprechaun, or I think I might kill Renly, connections to be my dad’s boss be damned,” he answers, and she laughs. “Okay, look, we’ve got a day left. I figured now’s as good a time as any to ask—would you want to go out with me, maybe?”

Though she thought she was expecting this, it still manages to catch her off guard. She’s gone out with guys before, and it normally isn’t so abrupt. “Yes,” she says, because she does like him quite bit, even if other people are trying to force it. “But, we’re not to tell anyone you asked me tonight. Loras’ bet said we’d be going out before Faire ended and I refuse to give me that satisfaction.”

He grins, face just visible in the moonlight. “Done,” he says. “Wasn’t aware Loras had anything to do with it. I was going to say the same thing, though—Jon bet Ygritte five.”

“You know, this does make us sound slightly evil. Just slightly, though.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wants to take over the world with flowers and kittens, not me.”

So, she’s got herself a boyfriend, and it’s Robb Stark, but it doesn’t feel any different. By this time next month she’ll have a car, and meeting up with him will be easier. “Can we stop right here?” she asks as they reach the lake, and they do.

As she flips her veil over her head, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” she answers. “Don’t you know it’s every girl’s dream to be kissed on a moonlit shore?”

Then she pulls him into a kiss before he can say anything, and thinks that maybe sometimes other people aren’t terribly wrong about things after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, believe it or not, this is (hopefully) going to be a series. Feel free to make suggests either here, or at [at my tumblr](http://littlegreywolves.tumblr.com/).


End file.
